Patrick Thatcher and the Ivory Tower
by PresidentHoneybell
Summary: Patrick Thatcher returns to Wentwater for his second year. His grandfather has secrets yet to reveal, secrets that someone is trying to uncover anyway they can.
1. The Longest Summer

Chapter One: The Longest Summer

It was nearing the end of July and the sun was beating down on the wooden houses of Arbridge, Virginia. There was a still and loud silence roaring along Mather Street and not a single trace of life was to be found outside. There were no owls flying, no Knarls ravaging through gardens; even Mr. Harper was not tending to his prized Screechsnaps (which now appeared to be dying.) The only thing lingering through the town was a thunderous silence, the kind of silence that could only be caused by an unbearable summer day.

Much of this week had been this way. The first day of the intense heat came as a great surprise to many, not expecting a sudden surge in temperature. After dismissing it as an odd occurrence, the neighborhood of Arbridge was unpleasantly surprised to find more of the same sweltering weather carry on for three more days.

It was now the fourth day. A young boy was lying down on his bed, resting his chin on his folded hands and flipping back and forth his Dermott Ollerton Wizard card. He pushed his blonde hair out the way of his sapphire-blue eyes, as he had taken to doing for the past twenty minutes, tirelessly memorizing the name of the second President of Magic and the details of the Foreign Wizard Act that he had passed in 1801. A layer of clothes, schoolbooks, and his brother Paul's old wizard comic books protected his floor. All these items had found their way to the ground as a result of Patrick Thatcher's increasingly boring summer at home. He would very much have liked for anything as little as one of his mother's cooking spells to go awry to anything as big as an Erumpent storming through his living room to make things more exciting.

Although he never thought he'd be missing him, Patrick was no longer fortunate enough to be bothered by his older brother anymore. Paul Thatcher had moved in with his best friend, Douglas Pickett, in an apartment in Scranton, Pennsylvania after his last year at Wentwater. Mrs. Thatcher wasn't particularly supportive of his decision to move away, especially since he didn't have any plans on where he would work. Nevertheless, the stubborn brother Patrick knew didn't let his mother's disapproval keep him from doing what he wanted.

"Patrick! I don't hear any cleaning going on!" his mother yelled from downstairs through his open bedroom door. "Your grandma and grandpa will be here soon and they're not going to want to see your room filthy."

Patrick doubted that his mother could actually hear cleaning, but he shoved himself up and sat on the edge of his bed looking at the amount of garbage that had amassed on his floor. He stood, slowly, stepping over an issue of "Gunther the Goblin" and began kicking clothes over to one side of the room.

His grandparents were coming. Sure, it wasn't an Erumpent, but it would definitely help break the humdrum mood in the Thatcher house. He hardly felt that they'd care about how messy his room was, that just wasn't how they were.

His mother's parents were the kind of people who could never settle in one place for very long. They loved the luxury of being able to come and go as they pleased and, as such, found themselves traveling all across the globe. The one thing that could be predicted from this most unpredictable pair was that their stays were always unannounced. While Mrs. Thatcher was always thrilled at the opportunity to see her parents, Mr. and Grandpa Thatcher were never overly excited to hear of their trips. One of the best parts of his grandparents' visits was that, Patrick usually ended up with some souvenir from their exploits. Patrick, himself, had done very little traveling and was always delighted to receive a picture of a Quidditch match, the magical sport that entranced the greater portion of the Wizarding world, that his grandparents attended in whichever country they last visited. It wouldn't be uncommon for them to return with candy, either, Patrick thought, remembering a bag of lollipops that changed the color of his tongue with every lick.

Word of their coming marked the end of Patrick's dull and listless summer, although, when compared to Wentwater everything seemed boring. Wentwater Conservatory of Magic was the school of magic that Patrick attended. As much as he enjoyed having time off from schoolwork, he couldn't help but wish to be back among the other students.

Patrick attempted to invigorate his vacation by visiting his friends, but neither of them were available. Elizabeth, who was at times obtrusive, was spending the summer with her parents visiting her Aunt Martha. Meanwhile, William, was busy helping his father with work.

William was Patrick's closest and unexpected friend. Patrick's acceptance letter to Wentwater Conservatory, arrived with William's name, much to the confusion of Patrick's family. It was incredible to see just how easily their friendship was made, considering the unusual circumstances surrounding their first introduction to each other.

_We've got a lot of things to get done. I'll try and write you later once we get closer to finishing._

He read William's month-old letter, as he picked up more trash off of his floor. There could not have been anything to make his summer more boring than having to clean his room and to do it alone, no less.

"Merton!" Patrick called.

The young house-elf had appeared in the middle of Patrick's room, clutching his green vest.

"Patrick is calling for Merton, sir?" he said, his large, grey eyes, about the size of tennis balls, were looking earnestly at Patrick.

"Yes," he started, "well, it's just, my room—"

"Oh no," Merton began, shaking his head energetically, his floppy bat-like ears waving in a fury. "Oh no, oh no, oh no. Sir knows Merton isn't allowed to clean Patrick Thatcher's room for him. Merton _must_ listen to Miss Catherine, sir."

He was right; his mother decided that with all his free time in the summer, he should be responsible enough to clean his own room.

"I don't want you to do it for me," Patrick said, "I'd like to do it together." With his brother gone, he had taken much more time trying to find someone to talk to, or hang around, more like. Patrick never came to Paul for the hours of entertaining conversation the two of them were bound to have. Merton was always willing to help Patrick whenever he asked for it; even more so than anyone else in the family. Perhaps, it was because they were both young or because Patrick paid the most attention to Merton. Either way, their relationship had grown the most over the summer.

Patrick walked over to set back his brass scales on top of his desk pushing aside an article in _The Warlock Examiner_ that had been printed shortly before his first year of school ended.

**Wentwater Conservatory Unearthes Mystery, Faculty Missing**

By NUNTFORD SCRAG, _The Warlock Examiner  
_MASSACHUSETTS (WE) – Students and staff at Wentwater Conservatory of Magic were shocked to hear the results of a startling revelation made by eleven year-old student Patrick Thatcher, this Tuesday, that puts faculty member Dominick Sumpton in the center of a suspicious disappearance.

Less than one year has passed since newly elected President of Magic, Franklin Filibuster, made his appointment of Magic Defense Secretary Timothy M. Sumpton's son to the post of Transfiguration at the United States' oldest school of magic. His selection was not met with kind words and Professor Dominick Sumpton's sudden disappearance after Thursday night's events have left the Republic of Magic scratching their heads.

The Republic of Magic weren't the only ones trying to figure out this mystery. This paper had sat on Patrick's desk for the greater portion of his summer, as he, too, tried to figure out what had happened. Professor Sumpton had revealed his interest in Patrick's compass, a gift that Patrick had received from his grandfather before his first year of school. Since returning home from school, Patrick tucked away his compass in the bottom of his drawer and had his grandfather teach him a spell to prevent it from being opened by anyone, but him.

The remainder of the article tried its best to recapture the events that led to Professor Sumpton's disappearance, but only made it look as though Patrick was being, at least minimally, dishonest.

"The most we've gathered is that Professor Sumpton led Patrick into one of the school's inner chambers and then, without a trace, disappeared," relayed Vice President of Magic, Perlston Honeybell at a press conference this morning. "I think Mr. Thatcher isn't telling us the whole story and I hope at some point he does so for the safety of the school." Thatcher has not been a stranger to the limelight this year. Not only is he the grandson of the proclaimed hero, Emeritus Thatcher, but his involvement in an unfortunate Quidditch match (surrounding a switch between a Quaffle and a Quod) placed Assistant Dean, Ernest Snerkin under serious scrutiny. The mystery surrounding this boy is foggy, but it is almost certain this is not the last the Wizarding World will be hearing about Patrick Thatcher.

Patrick didn't know anymore about it than he had told Professor Snerkin, which had been everything. He definitely didn't have any reason to help or defend Professor Sumpton. It was because of him that Professor Snerkin had been taken from Wentwater and questioned for close to four months. Other articles throughout the summer spoke of the incident in periods. The most recent mentioned an upcoming meeting with Dean Montgomery and unnamed members of President Filibuster's staff.

There was one thing, however, that stood in the back of Patrick's mind that Professor Sumpton had mentioned. He had accused Grandpa Thatcher of preventing him from what was rightfully his. What was it that belonged to Professor Sumpton that his grandpa had been keeping from him? Several times Patrick attempted to ask his grandfather about it, but had just been dismissed from any actual information.

"Master Patrick, isn't cleaning. He hasn't tricked Merton into disobeying his other master, has he?"

While Patrick's mind had been busy wandering off, he hadn't moved or straightened a single thing since sliding away the newspaper article.

"Of course not," he replied, honestly. "I just got distracted." Patrick thought to himself for a minute, a question coming to him. "Merton, you wouldn't happen to know anything about my grandpa and how he got this compass, do you?"

"Oh no, oh no," issued Merton, shaking his head even more vigorously than before. "Merton isn't allowed to tell one master's secrets, even if it's to another master."

"Does that mean you know?" asked Patrick, slyly.

The elf sent a disapproving stare at Patrick before snapping his fingers at a pair of dragon-hide gloves that darted their way into Patrick's open trunk.

"House elves isn't supposed to betray their masters," said Merton. He was snapping his fingers nervously, zipping several items from Patrick's floor to their rightful places, cleaning at a much faster rate than he had been a few seconds ago. "Even if they are all Merton's masters," he continued, shuffling across the room gathering more of Patrick's things.

Without warning or notice, the door to Patrick's room swung wide open. Standing there, framed in the doorway, was Patrick's grandfather, Emeritus Thatcher, a much revered figure in the United States Wizarding World. Grandpa Thatcher had recounted the incident just last Christmas of how he managed to find a group of dark wizards that even the United States Republic of Magic couldn't locate.

His thinning, pearl-white hair perfectly matched the grizzly sideburns that sprouted neatly out from his jaw and his right hand was gripped firmly on the doorknob upon which he seemed to be resting all of his weight.

"What is it, grandpa?" asked Patrick surprised. Grandpa Thatcher hardly initiated any conversations with Patrick all summer. In fact, after hearing the details of his grandson's ordeal during his first year, he had gone off to do more thinking, leaving Mather Street for a sizeable portion of the summer vacation.

"Well, you're already aware that your _other_ grandparents," he said, with an unenthusiastic drawl, "will be arriving soon and I wanted to just let you know that any information that isn't already publicly known should stay that way. Understood?"

"Yes. Right, of course," replied Patrick. "But," he continued, "why won't you tell me what Professor Sumpton meant when he said you were stopping him from having what was his?"

Grandpa Thatcher didn't hesitate at all before issuing his reply.

"I'm sure Professor Sumpton's definition of what is his is somewhat skewed, if not completely biased. Any further questions about this subject will be discussed as I see fit."

"Why won't you just tell me?" Patrick questioned.

"It is first and foremost _my_ business," he began. "Although I have consequently managed to thrust you into the midst of things, I am the one at the root of this incident and it is essential for my role to be much greater than yours."

He turned around to close the door behind him, but stopped and turned back to his grandson.

"Didn't your mother tell you that Merton cannot clean your room for you?" asked Grandpa Thatcher, noticing Merton snapping his fingers, magically cleaning Patrick's floor.

"Merton, you can stop now, I'm sorry," Patrick said.

A ferocious sound of flames erupted through the house and sifted through Patrick's open door.

"On second thought," said Grandpa Thatcher, contemplatively, "you might want to let him finish. We've finally got company."

His eyes rolled up into his head as he swung the door, leaving it ajar. Another sound of flames found its way through Patrick's door signaling the complete arrival of both of his grandparents.

"Miss Catherine's parents is dirtying the house!" Merton disappeared out of Patrick's room, a crackling sound echoing against the wooden walls. He was sure the house-elf was already sweeping away at the ash and soot from their fireplace that had no doubt managed its way in from his grandparents' appearance.

"Hello, mom…Hi, dad," Patrick heard his mother say through the open door, from downstairs. Patrick stood up, leaving the rest of his things on the floor and set off on a mild sprint out his room. As he took to the stairs he couldn't help but feel that the rest of his summer was about to change tremendously.


	2. Grandma and Grandpa Smollett

Chapter Two: Grandma and Grandpa Smollett

Mrs. Thatcher had her arms wrapped around her father, who was at least two heads taller than her. Her mother's brown eyes were fixed to her daughter, admiring the sight of her, until the thumping of footsteps on the wooden stairway interrupted her glance. Patrick, who had just come into view halfway down the stairs, watched his grandmother's face glint a rosy red, as her attention shifted from her daughter to her grandson.

"My charms! Catherine, tell me this handsome man isn't my little Pattycakes," she exclaimed.

Both of his grandparents looked no different from the last time he had seen them, except their brown hair managed to collect more locks of grey. His grandmother's face still seemed to shine of youthfulness, her face only being sprinkled about with wrinkles. His grandfather, too, appeared only a fraction of his actual age. Perhaps, it was their active lifestyle, but the two of them seemed to mature much slower than other wizards and witches of their generation.

Patrick was still on the bottom stair when his grandmother moved over to the stairway to embrace him.

"Hi, grandma!" said Patrick, over her shoulder, still squeezing her around her middle.

"Why, hello, there. Ben, just look at him," she said, holding Patrick at arm's length and turning to her husband. "Look how grown up he is and it's only been, what, two years?"

His grandfather grabbed a handful of his robes and wiped at the tiny spectacles he had been wearing before placing them back onto his face and taking in a good look at Patrick.

"Well, I must say he certainly has thickened up a bit," he laughed. "I can definitely tell he's got some Smollett blood in him," he added, puffing out his own rather scarce chest.

"Oh, enough of that," said Grandma Smollett, dismissively. "Where was all that Smollett blood when you almost sat on that Horklump in Brazil?" she said, referring to a tiny carnivorous plant that Patrick had studied last year in Dark Arts Defense. "You practically hexed a well in the ground."

"I didn't have time to examine it, May," defended Grandpa Smollett, hesitantly. "Those things can do some damage…more than you think, I've heard. That's beside the point…Come here."

He gestured for Patrick to give him a hug. Grandpa Smollett had bent down to clasp onto his grandson's side.

"Did you bring me anything?" asked Patrick excitedly, mid-hug.

"_Patrick_," frowned Mrs. Thatcher. "You know better than that."

"Oh, come on, Catherine. We always do. He's right to come to expect it now," replied Grandma Smollett. "I just don't know if we should let him see it now. What do _you_ think, Ben?" she asked, a tease of a smile breaking on her face.

"I don't know," said Grandpa Smollett, playfully. "Do you think he wants it now?" Patrick nodded feverishly. "I suppose, we might as well. There's no way he'll be able to focus on anything else if we don't. Now, we don't have it here," he said, while reaching into one of his robe pockets and pulling out a tiny slip of parchment. "But we've heard you were on the Quidditch team—why they changed it from Quodpot is beyond me—so we thought it would do you well to have your own broomstick."

Grandpa Smollett handed forward the parchment to Patrick. His face lit up. This was without a doubt the best present he had ever received and upon a glance at the slip, the most expensive.

"You bought me a Whirlwing?!" said Patrick, in utter disbelief.

"Dad, you didn't," interjected Mrs. Thatcher. "I've seen those things in Felicia's shop. They probably cost well over four-hundred Starlings!"

"Eight-hundred," corrected Patrick. "Says so right here," he said, showing the sales receipt to his mother. Mrs. Thatcher gave her parents a reproachful look.

"If it helps to know," started Grandma Smollett, trying to look defenseless, "I tried to stop him, but once your father wants something he doesn't stop until he gets it."

"Lighten up, Catherine, it's just a gift. Call it an birthday present! It's not that big of a deal. I wouldn't have gotten it if I didn't know we could afford it. The boy is young and he's on a Quidditch team," continued Grandpa Smollett. "If he's ever going to be the best, he's going to have to have the best equipment. And if he's a grandson of mine, he better be the best," he said, ruffling Patrick's hair, playfully.

"Speaking of grandsons," began Grandma Smollett, leading the way into the parlor and taking a seat on the nearest sofa. "Where is Paul?"

Before looking to his mother for her response, Patrick had turned his eyes toward the fireplace, which he noticed was completely dirt-free. Merton had definitely managed his job without being seen.

Mrs. Thatcher's mouth curled into a tiny frown as she sat across from her mother in a loveseat, crossing her legs.

"He decided to move to Pennsylvania with one of his friends from school. Apparently, they're going to work at that racetrack until they can come up with a better idea of how to spend their lives." She uncrossed her legs, placing them flat on the floor and sat up, addressing her mother. "I told him to talk to his father and see if he could get a job at the Department, but he refused."

"I see that boy hasn't changed. Still refusing help whenever anyone offers it," scoffed Grandpa Smollett sitting down next to his wife, Patrick standing behind the couch still checking down at the receipt every few seconds. "Sooner or later he'll learn, you can't get through life completely on your own. You'll have to get help from someone at some point."

"I just don't understand," Mrs. Thatcher said, leaning back and crossing her legs again, for the second time. "We're his family. We're supposed to help him whenever he needs it. Why doesn't he realize that?"

"Because he's a teenager. I can't believe you're asking that question, dear," said Grandma Smollett with a smirk. "You wouldn't even let your father and I pay for your Apparition test. You insisted on working at the shop to earn the money. Sold more owls in a week than that Priggins girl ever did."

"Mom, that was different. I just wanted to do something on my own for once, not everything, like Paul," Mrs. Thatcher said. "I grew out of that,"

"Then, you're going to have to trust that so will he," added Grandpa Smollett.

"It's not going to happen," intruded Grandpa Thatcher, entering the room from the hall. He crossed to an armchair near the fireplace and settled himself comfortably between its cushions. "The boy won't listen to anyone but his friends."

"Emeritus, you've come out of hiding!" jabbed Grandpa Smollett. "How nice of you to join us!" he said, snidely. As long as he could remember, Patrick's grandfathers had never really seen eye-to-eye. They were constantly tossing remarks at each other, making a simple occasion as a family dinner all the more laborious to sit through.

"Although unlikely, I do believe Paul will come around eventually," added Grandpa Smollett. "Despite what most of the country thinks, you're not always right, Emeritus."

"I have no control over this country's opinion of me," defended Grandpa Thatcher. "Just as you have no control over the nonsense you decide to spew from your lips."

Patrick could see both of his grandfathers' faces boiling red with anger, and decided to inject a few words of his own, squeezing his head in between Grandma and Grandpa Smollett.

"How long are you staying?" he asked.

"Oh, who knows," began Grandma Smollett, "but we were hoping to get a chance to relax for a bit. Take a breather."

"What's wrong with doing that at home?" asked Mrs. Thatcher. "It's a lot more comfortable than here."

Patrick though he heard Grandpa Thatcher mutter something similar to "they can't disturb me at home," but shrugged it off. He noticed Grandma Smollett glancing down at the floor before her husband opened his mouth to speak, while wrestling with his fingers nervously.

"Your mother and I have decided, we want to sell the house," he announced.

"What?" Mrs. Thatcher blurted, her mouth agape. "You can't be serious."

"We are, dear," affirmed Grandma Smollett.

"How did this happen?"

"Your father and I were waiting for our Portkey home from Madrid, and we struck up a conversation with another witch. She was talking very excitedly about a new house she and her husband had just bought."

"Well, you know us, Catherine," continued Grandpa Smollett, "we had to know where it was she was talking about. She told us all about her home and the city—Tyreton—and we thought it'd be a nice change of pace from our old house."

"Mom, dad, I grew up in that house," Mrs. Thatcher said, scooting herself to the edge of the couch. "You're really going to get rid of it?"

"We've just been there for so long, we felt it was finally time," said Grandma Smollett.

Mrs. Thatcher slid back into the cushion looking slightly defeated, sighing.

"Well, you aren't going to be moving very soon, right?" Maybe next year?" she asked.

Patrick's grandparents once again shifted uneasily.

"The woman we met referred us to an appraiser. He's going through the house right now," admitted Grandpa Smollett. "So," he quickly continued, noticing his daughter's eyes widen. "We just decided that we'd get out of the house, while all that is being done."

"I can't believe this," said Mrs. Thatcher, her eyes roaming around the room, unable to look her parents in the face. "You're really selling it so soon?"

Grandpa and Grandma Smollett were about to speak, until a cracking sound was heard from around the corner at the house's entrance. Mr. Thatcher walked by the entrance to the parlor before stopping and viewing the scene taking place inside. He was very tall, and his blonde hair looked a bit more rustled than it was normally seen, most likely owing to his hard day of work.

"Mr. Smollett, Mrs. Smollett, how nice of you to drop by," he greeted, looking perplexed. He turned his eyes to his wife as though asking for an explanation of their visit, before sitting down next to her.

"Ah, Charles, glad to see you're alive and well. The Republic still treating you well?" Grandpa Smollett asked.

"As well as they are capable of doing," he replied, still wondering why exactly they were here.

"Honey, my mom and dad are selling their home and they've decided to visit us while it is being appraised," Mrs. Thatcher told her husband, her voice ringing with disapproval.

"I see. Well, appraisals don't take that long. So, you should be headed back tomorrow, then?" he asked, hopefully.

"Well, we couldn't just stop in and stop out," said Grandma Smollett. Grandpa Thatcher's face screwed up in confusion. "We'd much rather stay around for a lot longer. It's been so long since we've last seen each other."

Patrick quickly remembered the receipt he was holding in his hand and rushed over to show his father.

"Dad, look what grandma and grandpa got me!" shoving the slip of paper under his father's nose. Mr. Thatcher glanced over it quickly, an incredulous look spreading across his face.

"A Whirlwing? Well, wow, that's fantastic," he said, glad to find at least one positive aspect of their visit. "That'll save me quite a bit of Starlin—"

Mrs. Thatcher gave him a sharp jab in his side along with a stern look.

"What? These things are expensive. That's just one more thing we don't have to worry about. That is," Mr. Thatcher paused, looking at his son. "As long as Patrick here manages to stay out of trouble."

"It wasn't my fault, dad," Patrick started. "It was," he stopped and remembered Grandpa Thatcher's warning from just moments earlier, and saw his piercing stare from his armchair before proceeding. "It was an accident."

"I was wondering what all that hubbub was about," voiced Grandma Smollett, interestedly. "Ben and I read some article in the paper about you and that Sumpton fellow."

"Well, I told him not to get tangled up with the Republic, but he didn't listen," Mr. Thatcher said.

It was hard for Patrick to try and defend himself without mentioning the compass. There wasn't much for him to say other than it wasn't his fault and he'd try to be more careful, which was what he had been telling his father every time it had come up over the summer.

"I'll be more careful, this year, dad," Patrick assured as his father returned the broom receipt to his possession.

Merton, who had not been seen by most of the current party yet, scurried in, bowed deeply and advanced toward Patrick carrying a pair of letters.

"These letters came for Master Patrick," he said, handling the two envelopes to Patrick.

"Merton! There you are! Come, come!" greeted Grandma Smollett, cheerfully. She had always taken to Merton quite strongly and had worked side-by-side frequently when preparing a meal. The house-elf moved to her, while Patrick read the envelopes of the letters. One was addressed to him from Wentwater Conservatory, the other, and Patrick considered this the more interesting of the two, was from William.

Patrick handed the Wentwater letter to his father, his eyes never leaving William's envelope. He tore it open hurriedly and unfurled the note within.

_Hey Patrick,_

_Sorry I haven't written in a while, but like I said I've been busy around here. I talked to my dad and he said if you weren't busy, and your parents said it was okay, then you can come spend the rest of the summer here in New York until school starts. Just let me know._

_William_

He almost couldn't believe it. It had to have been the most drastic change in a summer vacation in the history of summer vacations. Not only did his grandparents come and buy him a very expensive and amazing racing broom, but he was also invited to spend the rest of his summer over at William's house.

"This is just your list of schoolbooks for this year," stated Mr. Thatcher, browsing the letter Patrick had handed to him. "What's that one?"

"Please say I can go!" asked Patrick, desperately.

"Go where? What is that?" asked Mrs. Thatcher, puzzled, extending her hand to take the note from Patrick's hand.

Patrick offered the letter over to her. Mrs. Thatcher read it, but Patrick was unable to read the expression on his mother's face.

"Charles,' she said, blankly, giving the letter to her husband.

He, too, glanced over the words on the page, but his reading elicited a reaction that was easier to take in.

"Why not?" Mr. Thatcher triumphed. "It's fine by me."

"What? Just like that? You're so sure," said Mrs. Thatcher, looking shocked at her husband's quick decision.

"Anyone care to explain what's going on?" injected Grandpa Thatcher, sitting, uninformed, in his armchair.

"Patrick's friend, William, wants him to spend the rest of the summer with him in New York," Mrs. Thatcher explained.

"Oh, Patrick," Grandma Smollett began, "you'll love New York. There's so many things to see. And the people there—"

Mrs. Thatcher's mouth dropped in disbelief.

"You too?" she asked.

"Of course," Grandma Smollett replied, leaning into her words. "This boy should go out and experience some things for himself. He'll be fine, Catherine. Let him have a little freedom."

"If you had let Paul have a bit of freedom he wouldn't have ran off like he did," said Grandpa Thatcher. It sounded as if he tried to say it under his breath, but changed his mind mid-sentence. It was silent for a moment and the only noise that could be heard was the flittering of Merton's feather duster behind Grandma and Grandpa Smollett's couch. Mr. Thatcher glinted at his father, but soon ignored his words and turned his attention to his wife.

Mrs. Thatcher was outnumbered, her concerns once again taking a backseat to the rest of her family's opinions. She looked between the letter in her husband's hand and her son's blue eyes, before sighing.

"Yes, you can go," she said. Patrick leaped from his spot next to his father, jumping up and down in place. "BUT," Mrs. Thatcher said, interrupting Patrick's mini-parade, "you can't leave until you get a reply back from William, and I want an owl as soon as you get there to tell me you're safe, got it?"

"Yes, mom," said Patrick, excitedly, "of course. I'm going to go write William back right now."

Patrick darted off back upstairs and into his room, which was significantly cleaner than it had been, and grabbed a quill and parchment from atop his desk and began to scribble anything and everything he thought was important. He was writing so fast he wasn't even sure if it was making sense, but he didn't stop until he said everything he wanted to say.

_William,_

_My mom and dad said that I can come! I can't leave until you write back, so do that soon! If I'm going to come down, you're probably going to have to send me your address, too. Make sure you put that in your letter. I can't wait to leave! Write back soon!_

_Patrick_


	3. The Abraxan Transit

Chapter Three: The Abraxan Transit

As excited as Patrick was to spend the rest of his summer with William, he still had the pesky job of waiting for the reply in order to make it there. He gave Icarus specific instructions to fly as fast as he could to New York, although it took a bit of bribery in the form of owl treats to ensure he wouldn't slow down.

Even though he was preparing to leave and had already packed up his trunk with all of his school things, Patrick didn't neglect the fact that his grandparents had come to visit and the happenings around the Thatcher house the next day appeared to be no different than their usual visits.

Grandma Smollett spent the whole day preparing meals while chatting with and being assisted by Merton, who couldn't be happier to have another person willing to engage in the same chores that he did. The result was a delicious breakfast of French toast, eggs, and waffles with all types of fruit toppings. It was easily the best breakfast at the Thatcher house in quite a while.

Patrick, meanwhile, managed his time between both of his grandfathers. Their constant bickering made Grandpa Smollett's attempt at telling his family history nearly impossible.

"You know, Patrick, we Smolletts trace back to the 18th Century. Your grandmother and I have the complete family record at home, takes it back as far as 1678, I believe. Although, back then our surname wasn't 'Smollett.'"

"Was it, by any chance, 'Pompous?'" jabbed Grandpa Thatcher, sarcastically.

"_Excuse_ me?" asked Grandpa Smollett, looking as irritated as ever. "Someone has to explain to him our family history and with all the secrets you like to keep, I _know_ he won't be getting it from you."

"He's been getting more than his share of history around here. Aren't you, Patrick?" Grandpa Thatcher asked, trying to prove Grandpa Smollett wrong.

Patrick nodded. That was definitely the case. Owning a compass that belonged to the founder of Wentwater Conservatory of Magic is as close to history as he could get without diving headfirst into it.

"Enough of your nonsense, Emeritus," pleaded Grandpa Smollett. "Do enlighten me on your family's history. What of your parents? Grandparents?"

Grandpa Thatcher sat for a moment, not speaking and only sending an intense, wincing stare at Grandpa Smollett. He appeared as though deeply contemplating something, perhaps trying to muster up another snappy comeback. The pause seemed to have lasted for several minutes, but only a handful of seconds passed before Grandpa Thatcher finally uttered words in response.

"That information is of no importance to you, Ben," he conceded. "If you are concerned with Patrick learning about his family's history, by all means tell him of yours and when I see fit, I shall do the same."

Grandpa Thatcher finished his sentence and rose from his chair not looking at either Patrick or Grandpa Smollett once as he left the room.

"He's got to be one of the most difficult wizards I've ever had the _displeasure_ of associating with," Grandpa Smollett admitted, once Grandpa Thatcher's robe snapped around the corner. "You understand that your grandmother and I have nothing to hide from you, right, Patrick? It's your history just as much as it is ours."

"Yeah, I understand," replied Patrick. "I just wish he'd tell me his secrets."

"Like I said, he's one of the most difficult wizards I've ever met," he continued, turning his voice into a harsh whisper. "You'll have no luck with people who simply refuse to reason."

Patrick had always been puzzled by Grandpa Thatcher's behavior, but more recently found his ways of dodging important information particularly peculiar, especially, as Patrick discovered from Professor Sumpton, since it is Grandpa Thatcher's history that is most pertinent to uncovering the secret of the compass.

Additionally, a moment on the train last year floated back into Patrick's mind. Sarah Forrester, a girl Patrick had met during an awkward encounter in his first year had shown Patrick a book with a list of wizard soldiers in an old military regiment. One of them was listed as "H. Thatcher" and had to have no doubt been an ancestor of himself and his grandfather.

Grandpa Smollett continued to sit with Patrick telling him all about the wizards and witches of the Smollett family and their various achievements. It was very interesting hearing just how many notable roles had been held by past Smolletts, but Patrick was only half listening, thinking of the other half of his family that he wished, at some point, he would discover more about.

It was a long while before Grandpa Smollett finished, the clock rounding five when Patrick's grandmother finally called her grandson and husband into the kitchen for dinner.

The table was set with a most elaborate display of food. Merton and Grandma Smollett had clearly pulled out all the stops for tonight's meal. Merton was still bustling around the kitchen placing the final items on the table.

Much of the food Patrick had never seen before, but the smell that rose from the steaming plates dismissed the fact that these were entirely foreign dishes.

"Settle down, there's plenty to go around," said Grandma Smollett, noticing Patrick's eyes widen with hunger. "I just whipped up some things that I learned while we were in Europe. Those over there are gyros," she continued, pointing to a dish of round bread covered in meat, cheese, and lettuce placed next to a plate of bread rolls. Grandma Smollett had said the name of the rolls, too, but it was too long and complicated for Patrick to pay attention to.

By now, Patrick took his regular chair nearest the entrance of the kitchen and began to pile food onto his plate.

"You're not going to wait for your parents, I see," chuckled Grandpa Smollett. "That's just as well. Since you've already lead the pack, it couldn't do anymore damage to start myself, would it?"

"Emeritus! Dinner is being served," yelled Grandma Smollett towards the hallway.

"Have the elf bring it to me," he shouted back from outside the kitchen. It wasn't irregular for his grandfather to eat in his room and it wasn't anymore irregular tonight considering the company that he would be in.

Merton gathered a collection of the different foods from the table and whisked off to deliver Grandpa Thatcher's dinner.

A familiar crack sounded from outside the house which was accompanied by the squeaking of the Thatcher's front door and furious flapping several moments later. Mumbling could be heard from the hallway as both Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher made their entrance.

"Well, you all must have been starving," greeted Mrs. Thatcher. "Couldn't have waited any longer for us to arrive?"

Patrick shook his head, his mouth full of gyro.

"What about this?" said Mr. Thatcher, producing an envelope identical to the one Patrick had received yesterday that was no doubt William's response. "Could you possibly wait any longer for this letter?" Mr. Thatcher was waving it, playfully, in front of his son's face.

Patrick leapt from his seat, dropping his fork completely in order to grab the letter from his father's hands.

"Come on, dad!" insisted Patrick, as his father pulled away at each of Patrick's swipes at the envelope, until finally giving in.

"So, when can I leave?" asked Patrick, excitedly, tearing through the envelope energetically.

"Well, it's much too late to leave tonight. I suppose it'll be safe for you to leave in the morning, then," reasoned Mr. Thatcher.

Patrick read the letter. It wasn't anything extensive, merely William's address and a simple "_I can't wait until you get here_," but it felt like so much more. It felt important, so much so that Patrick carefully held it by the corners and folded it back into the envelope when, suddenly, a question came over him.

"Dad, how am I going to get there?" Patrick asked. Mr. Thatcher worked for the Virginia Division of the Agency of Magical Transportation; if anyone knew the best way to get there, it would be him.

"It'd take much too long to get a Portkey in such short notice and Side-Along Apparition could be risky, since we don't know exactly where he lives," Mr. Thatcher thought aloud. "I suppose you could take the Floo Network. I'll have to check their available fireplaces at work tomorrow before you leave."

Patrick groaned.

"I'll have to wait?" asked Patrick. "I don't even really _like_ traveling by Floo. Too much spinning around, it's uncomfortable."

"Let the boy take the Transit," muttered Grandpa Thatcher, hobbling into the kitchen with an empty plate of food. "He can handle it."

"You can't be serious," said Mrs. Thatcher, sitting down at the table. "I've seen the people that ride the Transit. They're a bunch of shady characters. No, no, Patrick, I'm afraid you're just going to have to go by Floo."

"You know, I never thought I'd say this," started Grandpa Smollett, a begrudging tone in his voice, "but I agree with Emeritus."

"Not you, too…" said Mrs. Thatcher finding herself once again the only person on her side. "Mom?" she pleaded. "You agree with me, right?"

"I wish I did, honey, but he's a young boy. If he can't learn to take care of himself sooner, then it'll be much harder later."

"It'll teach Patrick a little bit of responsibility," Mr. Thatcher insisted, turning to his wife. "I bet if we had let Paul ride the Transit more often, he'd have gained some perspective on things."

Mrs. Thatcher looked around at each of the faces in the room, lastly turning her eyes on her son, who was desperately awaiting her response.

"Catherine, don't worry. I'll make sure he's taken care of," Mr. Thatcher assured.

"Fine, go ahead. Do what you want," she replied. Her expression turned from concerned to frustration as she chomped on one of the rolls on the table.

Patrick couldn't help but release a huge smile and would have ran upstairs to pack his things if he hadn't already done so last night. Instead, he helped himself to more of his grandmother's cooking, each bite tasting just a bit better than it had moments ago.

The noise in the kitchen was rather silent except for Patrick's ravenous chewing. Grandma Smollett had taken the seat next to her daughter, grasping her right hand.

"You're going to have to get used to letting go, dear," Grandma Smollett advised. "If you don't start now, it'll be much harder to do it when the time comes."

Mrs. Thatcher didn't say anything. She flicked her eyes onto her son, now gulping down a glass of pumpkin juice.

"I know."

A part of Patrick wanted to tell his mom that he could handle himself. He was certainly capable of it with all that had happened last year, although he did have a bit of luck on his side.

Patrick didn't bother staying up with the rest of his family while they talked, or yelled in the case of his grandparents, in the living room. He forced himself to sleep in hopes that the next day would arrive much sooner through the night. He spent several minutes trying to clear his mind of all thoughts, but sounds and images kept flying into sight, tall buildings and crowded streets among them.

Ironically, concentrating on these images helped lure Patrick to sleep, and it was only moments before he had woken up, dressed, and rushed downstairs, his trunk nearly collapsing on him and causing a loud ruckus as it banged against the steps.

"I'm ready to go!" announced Patrick.

He took off toward the kitchen after noticing no one sitting in the parlor and stumbled onto Grandpa Thatcher, alone at the table, sipping his morning cup of tea.

"Everyone is gone except your father," he said, setting down the cup. "Your mother, thankfully, took her parents to Agnomon. Or was it the other way around? They didn't want her to try and sneak you off to New York herself."

"Well? What's taking Dad so long? I'm ready!" declared Patrick. He was about to head out of the kitchen, his neck already trying to crane itself to look up the stairs when he heard his grandfather speak again.

"The compass," Grandpa Thatcher said, softly. "Where is it?"

Patrick's face screwed up for a second then he hit himself over the head.

"It's still in my drawer. I almost forgot it!"

"Leave it," Grandpa Thatcher interrupted, as Patrick tried to exit the kitchen for the second time, this time to go retrieve the compass.

"You don't want me to have it anymore?" Patrick inquired.

"That's not the case, at all. I believe it would be much safer for such an instrument to remain under my watch for now," Grandpa Thatcher said. "Should there be any unforeseeable circumstances."

"Right," Patrick nodded, firmly.

"Well, then," Grandpa Thatcher said, hurriedly, rising from his seat. "I hope that all goes well for you this year."

"What? Where are you going?" asked Patrick as his grandpa left the kitchen and made his way to his bedroom.

"Nowhere you need to be concerned about. I have some business to take care of. I'll send you an owl if there should ever be cause for alarm."

Grandpa Thatcher was inside his room holding the door ajar, while Patrick stood just outside.

"Until then, just be careful, okay?"

Patrick nodded.

"Come, Patrick!" called his father. "You'd better be on your way."

Mr. Thatcher was descending the steps when Patrick rushed from the kitchen to where his trunk was waiting at the front door. His father was wearing a standard black work robe and his blond hair fit tidily under the matching black hat on his head.

"Go on, get out there," he ushered, prompting Patrick to swing open the door and yank his trunk out of the house and onto the street.

It was considerably cooler than it had been over the past few days, but the sun still shone bright enough to make Patrick tug on the collar of his shirt, in order to keep it from sticking to his back. Mr. Thatcher strode up from the door and met his son at the edge of the street. He paused for a moment and withdrew his wand and pointed it up in the air in front of him, as if trying to poke the air.

A deafening BANG erupted from the silence and no sooner had Patrick attempted to protect his ears had a large, silvery-gray bi-articulated bus appeared, seemingly, out of nowhere, halting right in front of the two Thatchers. Patrick, who was standing to his father's left in front of the bus' glass doors, squinted his eyes down the road to try and see the back of the hulking vehicle. It had to have been at the very least eighty feet long.

Apart from its remarkable length, a huge illustration of a white, winged horse was spread along the side of the compartment nearest the both of them, the words "The Abraxan Transit" emblazoned thickly in black beneath it.

Patrick was still admiring the design of the bus when the doors opened and Mr. Thatcher began a conversation with the driver, heaving his son's trunk on board.

"How's it going, Ferman? Not having anymore steering trouble are we?" he asked, jokingly.

The man was a bit on the portly side, although the black uniform he wore made him appear to look slightly thinner. Patrick could see red locks of hair peeking out from underneath the driver's black cap that matched the hair of his untamed mustache.

"No, no, not anymore. If I couldn't steer this thing after seven months, I'd be in trouble," he replied, his words sort of falling on top of one another. "Is this the young man I'll be drivin' this morning?" he asked, pointing the brim of his black cap at Patrick.

"Yes it is," Mr. Thatcher replied. "This is my son, Patrick. Patrick this is Ferman Caskey, he's the driver of the Transit."

"Hi, Mr. Caskey," greeted Patrick, shyly.

"Please, please, call me Ferman," he pleaded. "'Mr.' and 'anything' makes me sound old."

"I told him that he better get you there safely or else we'll both have your mother to answer to," added Mr. Thatcher. "Merlin knows we don't want to make her upset."

A bit of murmurs were coming from the back of the bus, from some of the Transit's more impatient travelers.

"This isn't the 'Conversation Transit!'" yelled a man from the rear.

"Quiet down back there," Ferman shouted back. He straightened his collar and hat before turning to Mr. Thatcher. "All right, I guess we'll be goin' then. Nice talkin' to ya."

Mr. Thatcher handed a Starling and a pair of Bells to Ferman before giving Patrick a firm hug.

"Take care of yourself, hear me?"

"Yes, dad."

"I gave you enough to cover his breakfast, Ferman. Make sure he eats something," he said while descending the stairs off the bus.

"Will do, Mr. Thatcher."

Ferman nodded in acknowledgement and swung the doors closed.

"You might want to grab a seat before we take off, again," Ferman instructed, peering at Patrick through a wide rear-view mirror.

"Yes, Mr.–er Ferman."

Patrick finally got his first real look at the inside of the bus. If at all possible, it was a lot larger on the inside than the outside made it appear. The bus seemed to stretch much farther back and it was practically impossible to see the last row from the front where he was standing.

Aligned down the inside, big, leather armchairs were positioned together in pairs on both sides of the bus against the wooden panels of the wall. The velvet curtains had all been pulled back, letting the light shine in through the clear, glass windows. Not wanting to move too far back, Patrick took a seat in an armchair just a few rows behind Ferman and placed his trunk in the seat beside him.

With another loud BANG, the Transit took off again. Patrick instinctively grabbed the arms of the chair he was in, the speed of the bus forcing him backward into the cushions. He looked out the window and he certainly wasn't in Arbridge, Virginia anymore. His house had instantly disappeared and been replaced by a rural fields of tall, golden grass.

"Excuse me, Ferman? Where are we?" Patrick asked.

"We're about somewhere in Maryland. This is where we were before you got on board. Neat isn't it?" He smiled, looking up at the mirror to talk. Patrick clutched his stomach, the speed of the bus was beginning to make his insides feel like they were doing flips.

"Hey, if you want that breakfast your pop paid for," started Ferman, apparently mistaking Patrick's nausea for hunger, "you'll have to head back to the second compartment."

"Right."

Patrick wasn't sure if eating something was the best decision at this point, but he didn't dismiss the fact that he hadn't eaten anything this morning.

As Patrick carefully rose from his seat and stepped toward the second compartment he couldn't see what his mother's qualms were about. The other passengers in the foremost compartment didn't seem to be shady at all. Most of them were dressed no more peculiar than most wizards he had seen. A few of them glanced at Patrick as he passed by, one turning down the corner of his newspaper to peer through the corner of his eye. He only looked for a moment before hiding his face behind _The Warlock Examiner's_ headline: "Trinidad Defeats Russia to Claim 424th Quidditch World Cup."

Sidling by the other travelers en route to the breakfast cart started to garner more attention than Patrick wanted. The other passengers' gazes became noticeably longer; one pair of wizards even halted their conversation on Senate elections to watch Patrick sift nervously by.

Were his shoes untied? Something in his hair? Patrick couldn't figure out why he was attracting so much attention. It was a relief when he finally arrived at a cart along the left wall in the second compartment; he no longer had to watch their piercing stares.

Patrick took a plate and grabbed two slices of toast that almost broke in half upon picking it up. He helped himself to a few links of sausage out of a metal pot and poured out a cup of pumpkin juice in the cleanest glass of the four on the cart.

The bus made a sudden jump and swiped the floor from beneath Patrick's feet, forcing his arms to impulsively cling to the edges of the cart. With any chance that the other passengers had forgotten about him gone, Patrick turned his head right to see just how much attention he was receiving now. In fact, all of the travelers seemed to be staring now. There was one man with a thick auburn beard, however, not only gazing at him but pointing his wand directly behind Patrick's left shoulder.

Patrick straightened up quickly and reached frantically for his wand before noticing the plate of food and glass of juice hovering beside him.

"You're not going to hurt me for saving your breakfast are you?" said the man, in a firm, almost commanding, voice. Patrick could tell by the man's appearance that he looked to have been traveling for a long time. His hair was unruly and his robes were adorned with splotches of dirt. It was these kind of people that his mother was surely speaking of.

"No," Patrick replied, not a single spell even coming to mind. "Thanks, mister," he said, cautiously.

"Don't mention it. It happened to me when I first rode."

Patrick grabbed his floating meal and watched the man place his wand back inside his robes. He walked quickly back to his seat before the bus could jump again and force him to spill his food all over the place. It was much easier to walk to the front of the bus because he didn't have to look the other passengers in the eye as he made his way to his seat.

The Transit screeched to a halt, and a small bit of Patrick's pumpkin juice slipped over the side of his glass.

"Darby, Pennsylvania!"

Several wizards exited the bus, including one who hobbled up from the rear, hunched over and sporting tatty brown robes. The man who had helped Patrick walked smoothly toward the exit, a soft jingling chimed from his side on every other step. He waved a hand to the driver before lifting one back to Patrick and heading off the bus completely.

"D'you know him?" Ferman asked, while closing the doors.

"I don't think so," Patrick replied. "Do you?"

"Nope, not at all. Picked him up in Colorado. He was talking about some meeting he had to get to, I don't really know. I'm not supposed to talk too much with the passengers. I'll get off schedule.

Patrick placed his palm over his glass of juice preventing it from spilling as the Transit jumped back on its course.

"So, you aren't plannin' on getting into a mess again this year are you?" Ferman asked.

"What?" sputtered Patrick, unsure exactly of what Ferman was talking about.

"At school, at school," Ferman clarified. "Kinda had your head stuck in a gate last year, huh? Got caught up in a bit of a scandal."

"Yeah, I guess so, but I didn't try to get in it, if that's what you're thinking," defended Patrick.

"I'm not going to ask you how or why you did it, just if you're plannin' on doin' it again. I'd like to give your father a heads up, if you are, that's all."

"Then, you can tell him no…I'm not."

"Sure thing, fella. Now, where did you say you were headed again?" asked Ferman, the bus now plowing through fields of trees that hopped out of the way before the Transit could crash into them.

Patrick pulled out the envelope with William's letter from his robe pocket and examined it carefully. His eyes shot quickly to the address written below William's few words.

"Four and a half, east sixty-second street," he read aloud.

"Oh, the Augurey's Perch," Ferman exhaled.

"You've heard of it?" asked Patrick, interestedly.

"Used to live there, myself, when I was tryin' to get on my feet. Real nice place. You'll have to wait a bit, though," said Ferman, tilting his head down to unroll a bit of parchment. "Everyone else is gettin' off before you are. You'll be the last stop."

This wasn't the most favorable news. All Patrick wanted to do was get there, but the best he could do was sit as the rest of the passengers exited the bus. Patrick finished his sausage quickly, but forced himself to wait during the Transit's several stops in New Jersey to take sips of his pumpkin juice.

Patrick leaned over to view out his window, taking in the sporadic scenery as the bus jolted its way toward its final destination.

About forty minutes and several sips later, the Abraxan Transit screeched to a halt for a final time resting its three compartments in between two large buildings on a busy New York street. There were a great deal of Muggles walking around outside the bus, but none of them even stopped and glanced at the giant bus that took up the whole side of the street.

"Here we are, fella," proclaimed Ferman, swinging the Transit's glass doors open. "New York City."

Patrick kept glancing out the windows as he made his way toward the front of the bus. He didn't have a clue where exactly he was supposed to be going.

"Um, excuse me, Ferman," started Patrick, trying not to look completely lost. "Do you know which one of these buildings is The Augurey's Perch?"

"You mean you've never been here before," he chuckled. "Well, it's a good thing you were the last stop, mister. You wouldn't know where to find four and a half unless you knew about it. Go on."

Ferman shooed Patrick out the door and exited quickly behind him and crossed to a building on the left side of the road. The building was made out of bricks, with one brick specifically jutting out farther than the rest. Ferman pushed it in with the tip of his fingers and spoke a sentence just loud enough for Patrick to hear.

"No rain will be found 'til the Augurey makes a sound."

Out of the building came another as though sprouting out windows, a door, and a stoop from the side of the wall. Ferman simply smiled and gestured at the door's handle.

"You're welcome."


	4. The Augurey's Perch

Chapter Four: The Augurey's Perch

Not a single person on the street seemed to notice that a building had just grown out of another. They were still bustling by on the sidewalk, oblivious to the two wizards on one side and the giant bus on the other.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go on!" Ferman said, taking a few steps down the stoop and headed back to the Transit. "I'd show you around, but I've got to get back and get ready for my next route. Take care of yourself."

Ferman climbed back on top of his seat and soon the bus sped off with a loud bang disappearing almost instantly.

Patrick was left standing on the stoop facing the brass knob of the building that he grasped with an enormous burst of excitement. He reached out to open the door, but it was locked.

"You don't live here," came the immediate growl of a man through a speaker positioned just to the right of the door that Patrick had not seen.

"What do you want?" the man demanded.

"I-I'm here to see William?" Patrick responded, nervously. Patrick had no idea who this man was, but didn't understand why he was being so rude. For a second, Patrick was beginning to believe that he had stumbled into the wrong house or had read the wrong address.

"William? Hmph, and you think you can just stroll in here thinking you can get whatever you want? Tell me, what're you? Pureblood? Half-Blood?" he insisted.

"I'm-m a Pureblood," answered Patrick.

"Well, _that_ explains your arrogance," he spat. "Why don't you stand outside until you lose that self-righteous tone in your voice."

Patrick, dumbfounded, didn't know if the man was being serious or not. He didn't realize that he had sounded any particular way, but it didn't seem as though the man was going to be any more helpful unless Patrick exited and made a better attempt at sounding entirely courteous.  
"Okay," he said, softly, taking a deep breath, searching the street to see if anyone found his activity peculiar.

"Patrick! You're here!"  
Out came the voice of the Patrick's best friend from the building's speaker.  
"Quit playing around, let him in!"

The tapping of shoes against a wooden floor preceded a loud "_buzz," _the disengaging of the door's lock and the gleeful face of William Quinn.

"Will!"

William appeared to have sprouted a few inches over the summer, but his hair was still weaved together in long braids that were bound with a black band down his back.

"Did you find it all right?" William asked.

"Um, sort of." Patrick slid his eyes over to the man behind a large wooden desk before whispering back to William, trying hard not to move his lips. The man's chin was covered in sporadic sprouts of hair that erupted from various places on his jaw. His chestnut brown hair fell limply on his head like the rotting top of a carrot.

"Who is that?"

"Oh, that's Mr. Sulley, he's the doorman for the building," answered William. "Mr. Sulley, I told you that Patrick was going to be coming today."

The man named Mr. Sulley squinted his eyes in disgust upon the mention of the word "doorman." His arms were tightly folded with his hands tucked securely under them.

"You didn't tell me what he sounded like, this friend of yours could have been anybody," he snarled.

Mr. Sulley's tinged teeth rescinded before turning his eyes away from the two children.

"Amerus!"

A commanding bellow had been issued from the same stairs that William had just descended. They were followed immediately by the creaking of wood as a man, much taller than William, was seen taking each step down the case, while grasping a fidgety, grey house-elf. The man was black, just as William was, but his hair was cut very low. Had it not been an inch long like it was, Patrick would have guessed that he could have been bald. The one thing that Patrick did guess, and was most likely true, was that this man was William's father.

"Amerus, this is the second time Ms. Lollard has found Grumby sneaking servings of her ginger root soup. Please try not to let this happen again. I'd rather not have to turn down her sub-par soup whenever I have to go and retrieve him."

The elf, Grumby, stopped fidgeting as Mr. Quinn relayed the message. It looked as though he had given up resisting and instead hung there like a limp doll. Patrick compared his nose to Merton, not that it was very long, but conversely, seemed much shorter. So much shorter, in fact, that his square-jaw jutted out quite a bit farther than he was used to seeing.

Mr. Sulley sank into a kind of reluctant obedience as he turned to take Grumby from Mr. Quinn's grasp and set the elf on the counter in front of them.

"Well, I can't keep a watch on him, you've got me staring at this door all day."

"I don't want to hear it, Amerus. You know exactly why you've been given this job. It's either you work here or you don't have a place to live," Mr. Quinn countered. "So, as soon as you're ready to quit let me know."

Mr. Quinn waited for Mr. Sulley to respond, but he just glared back, defeated and ushered Grumby off the counter and behind the desk.

Mr. Quinn finally turned to his son and their new guest.

"Hello, Patrick," he said extending his hand to Patrick, who gratefully shook it. "Great to have you here. I'm Samuel Quinn, William's father. Since you came alone and through the front door I'm going to guess you took the Transit?"

"Yes, sir, I've never ridden it before," said Patrick.

"Well, it's not too bad. Just got to be careful of grifters taking your Starlings," he chuckled. "Come on, let's get this stuff upstairs."

Mr. Quinn withdrew his wand and Patrick's trunk rose off the ground and trailed behind them with William setting for the stairs first. Patrick shot an eye over at Mr. Sulley as they left and the look of disgust took over his face once more.

"Feel free to take your time, we've got thirteen floors to go," Mr. Quinn called to the boys from behind them.

"What exactly is this place?" Patrick asked, curiously. He had thought he was going to William's house, but as he just heard Mr. Quinn say, there was at least one other person living here.

"The Augurey's Perch is a boarding house. If you go up just one more flight of stairs, just to your right, you'll see a picture of my Great-great-great-great-grandfather," Mr. Quinn said, taking a second in between "greats" as if trying to remember exactly how many he needed. "Mr. Alvin Archibald Quinn."

Patrick looked closely at the portrait. It was very old and, unlike most Wizarding portraits, it didn't move and it was especially tattered around the corners. The image didn't look as clean and polished as many of the other portraits he had seen, especially like the ones at Wentwater, but it had more of a rough sketch feel. It was like the artist felt he made a mistake and didn't bother finishing it, or rather considered it an elaborate doodle. Either way, it lacked that distinct feeling of completion and professionalism.

"I never found out how he came about this place, only that he gave it to his son and that it has been passed down ever since, until I came to own it.

"This place has been home to tons of wizards over the years." Mr. Quinn continued, as he led them up the stairs. "Some don't stay very long. As a matter of fact, Landon Ringwald stayed here for a few months before he signed with the Eagles over in Elmira and now he's one of the best Forwards in Quodpot."

"Sammy! Who's that you got there?"

The three of them just passed an open door. An old. and completely bald wizard, was sitting in a rocking chair and had crept to the edge of the chair to look out at the group.

"Just a friend of William's, Cygnus," answered Mr. Quinn.

The old man took an appraising look at Patrick, squinting significantly before satisfied.

"You that kid from the papers?" Cygnus asked.

Patrick wasn't expecting a question like that; he definitely didn't think someone his age would have known anything about what was going on at Wentwater.

"Uhh…" was all Patrick managed to say.

"I guess I don't need to ask if Amerus has been giving you your copies of the _Examiner_," joked Mr. Quinn.

"Nope, he has and I've been reading about this boy right here. I know my sight isn't what it used to be, but this boy right here is the one from those papers, I can tell you that. Say, son, if you know more than you're lettin' on you should set things straight."

Patrick nodded, hesitantly, as William stepped back to laugh away from Cygnus' already poor vision.

"I'm sure he's told all he could tell, Cyg," began Mr. Quinn, obviously trying to end their conversation. "Why don't you focus on a different section of the paper. Sports is always a good place to start."

"I don't bother with sports anymore. They don't play the game like they should." Cygnus was waving his arms about and had turned his body so he was back rocking again. Mr. Quinn motioned for them to leave while he was busying speaking about how Quodpot is "all for show now."

"_Others_ have been here for quite some time," explained Mr. Quinn, resuming the tour. "Ol' Cyggy there has lived here before I was born." It was at this moment that Patrick's thoughts jumped back to Mr. Sulley. If this place had been handed down through Mr. Quinn's ancestor's how did Mr. Sulley come about working here? Patrick wasn't sure if it was the type of question that he should ask Mr. Quinn.

They climbed more and more stairs passing by more residents with every floor. A pair of young wizards were playing a game of Sizzling Flip on the sixth floor. The three of them barely made it around the corner before the last card of the game was placed on the deck, sending them flashing, sparking and flying all over the narrow hallway. Up through the eighth floors, yelling and screaming over a Quodpot game could be heard behind one of the doors they passed and on the eleventh quiet bangs and fizzes knocked against the inside of another door.

Finally, the three of them reached the thirteenth floor. There were no other doors on this floor just a hallway that ended with more stairs. A brass silver number one hung on the wooden door in front of them and Mr. Quinn tapped the handle with his wand and stepped inside followed by William.

The Quinn's room was vast, much larger than the one Cygnus had been rocking in. The entrance seemed to be mostly a living room, although he could see the paths to the kitchen and bedrooms. A large radio sat on a square table in the corner, while a modest sofa and armchair were the next to greet Patrick's eyes. Towards the left on a large table were picture frames of whom Patrick could only assume were William's family and ancestors. These pictures, unlike the one of Alvin Quinn, moved like any other and even included one that appeared to be a baby picture of William fidgeting in a light blue blanket.

The most spectacular of the whole room was the large window on the right that gave a sweeping view of New York City. The trees of Central park, tall buildings and the blue, cloud-scattered sky were all very visible from the glass of the room. Patrick was just about to make his way toward the view when a sharp rapping beat against the door of the Quinn's apartment.

Snapped from his gaze, Patrick whipped around, looking for either William or Mr. Quinn to let him know it was okay to answer the door. Patrick opened his mouth to call for one of them, but another round of louder knocks at the door interrupted his attempt to grab someone's attention. He pulled against the silver handle and the voice of the person behind the door preceded Patrick's first glimpse.

"Got a letter for you, Samuel," growled a low, gruff voice. "Got one here for a Patrick Thatcher. Might send back."

He was stooped over and riffling through letters in a brown satchel hanging from his side, strands of crinkled brownish-grey hair shielding much of his face.

"I'm Patrick, I'll take that letter."

The man jerked his head toward Patrick, clearly not recognizing or expecting the voice he heard. He had a very unkempt appearance, clearly had not shaved in quite some time and the short shaggy hair was in disarray. A single feather was sticking out from around his beard.

He paused, confused, looking up at the number one on the door and past Patrick to double check his sanity.

"Sorry, I'm a friend of William's," Patrick said, to the man's still puzzled face. Silence began to reign over much of the following moments. The man seemed unsure whether or not to trust Patrick with the letters, both offering and rescinding his hand before finally giving them up and attempting to walk away.

"Wait," Patrick called, "Did my owl deliver these?"

No response.

"He's not too big, grey..." Patrick was struggling to find a description much more suitable and less generic than the one he was currently giving.

"On the roof," barked the man, suddenly. Patrick attempted to say "_thanks_" but the man stalked off, his hunched shoulders rising with every step, almost concealing his head from behind.

Patrick held the envelopes in his hand, on top a tea-colored one baring _Mr. Samuel Quinn_, the other with Patrick's name just beneath. Patrick ran his fingers across the inked letters on his letter, until pulled by the voices of the Quinns coming from the other room.

"Well, Patrick, you're all set up. Your trunk is in William's room and your bed is made," said Mr. Quinn, patting his hands clean. "What do you have there?"

"Some letters," Patrick said, suddenly attentive. "A strange man dropped them off at the door."

"That's Hermes," began William, "he takes care of all the owls on top of the building." William leaned in close and dropped his voice to a loud whisper, "he's crazy."

Mr. Quinn uttered a sound of disapproval while breaking the seal of the envelope.

"He's not crazy," he justified. "He just cares deeply for them. I don't imagine he said much to you, Patrick?"

Patrick shook his head.

"Didn't think so. He didn't talk to _me_ until I was nine years old and my dad bought me my first owl and even then it was only to tell me to pick up his feathers."

William silently mouthed "crazy" while his father continued to open the letter. He appraised the letter and a stone stillness tightened his body. Mr. Quinn stood rigidly, moving only his eyes back and forth.

"What is it?" asked William, stepping closer to his father, trying to peek around to view the letter himself.

"Nothing," Mr. Quinn said, quickly reanimated, folding the paper back into the envelope and stuffing it into his robe pocket. "Just a friend. William, Patrick you two go settle in, I'll get some food going for dinner. We've got some things to pick up tomorrow from Agnomon."

It seemed that as soon as food was mentioned Patrick's stomach remembered it had not been fed in quite some time. The ride on the Transit was longer than expected and hearing that food was on the way made Patrick's tongue water.

William's father departed immediately into the kitchen, reaching back into his robes.

"Come on, I've got to show you something!" William called.

William led Patrick into his room. It was relatively large, covered in Quidditch posters of the Elmira Eagles, hanging over a pair of full beds, each of their trunks sitting at the foot. William dove headfirst into his sheets. Still appraising the room, Patrick sat down neatly on the bed next to William's.

"Have you seen these?"

William tugged at one of the drawers on the nightstand between their beds and pulled out a piece of rolled up, parchment. He unraveled it and displayed it before Patrick. A large poster of a rather short, bald man standing triumphantly underneath a bold headline: "Orson Dirge for Wentwater Transfiguration Professor!"

"What? Who is he?" asked Patrick, staring at the poster.

"Dunno," started William, "some people were handing them out at Agnomon Square. They were handing out posters with him for President of Magic, too."

"Really? But President Filibuster has only been president for a year."

"Yeah, I know, crazy. I wonder who _will_ be our professor." William rolled up the parchment and placed it on the desk. It bumped a picture frame of a young woman holding who Patrick could only assume was a baby William.

"Is that your mom?" asked Patrick. William had never mentioned his mother before and the question prompted him into an untypical timidity.

"Yeah, that's her," he said, quietly. "She passed away when I was real young."

"I'm sorry," Patrick said, quickly, looking at the picture. She was very beautiful, with short curly, black hair framing her young face. She had a wide, white smile as she cuddled and cooed her child.

A short silence punctuated their conversation before Mr. Quinn called to them for dinner.

"Boys!"

"Time to eat, I guess." William sprang up and headed toward the door. "You're going to love it. Dad's a great cook."

Patrick rose to stand up off the bed, his hand touched the envelopes that he received from Hermes that he completely forgot to open.

"I'll be right out," he said, and started to rip open the envelope. The letter wasn't very long, but it was important nonetheless.

_Send safe reply soon or Mom will never trust me again._

_-Dad_


	5. The Forgotten Wand

Chapter Five: The Forgotten Wand

In many ways, The Perch, as William called it, felt like being back at Wentwater; a building full of wizards and witches all with different stories to tell. William made a habit of introducing Patrick to as many of its residents as he could, stopping to greet them as they passed in the halls. Most, if not all, were very friendly even if occasionally busy as in the case of Ms. Clutterbuck, who looked positively overwhelmed by the rolls of parchment she was struggling to carry past the front desk. William perked up when she entered.

"Hi, Melba, can I help you with that?" he asked, offering his wand to assist.

"Wha? Er...no thanks, Willie..." she dismissed, politely. "I'm okay, just need to run these up to my room. Nice to meet you." She raised her thin, black eyebrows at Patrick instead of offering up one of her occupied hands and rushed up the stairs. William stood by the banister momentarily frozen.

"Willie...," mouthed William, breathless.

Patrick waved a hand to shake him from his stupor.

"Oh, sorry. That's Melba. She works for some Council Senator, I think. She just started, too. I guess she's doing a lot of work for him," said William, his awareness of the room returning to him.

"I see, and do you always pretend to be petrified when she's around?"

William scoffed, but said nothing, causing Patrick to smirk and follow him up the stairs.

The pair spent a fair amount of time dashing by Cygnus' open door playing Hide-and-Seek with the two children they had seen playing Sizzling Flip upon Patrick's arrival. The Magos kids loved playing games, and the multi-floored Augurey's Perch provided an ideal environment. Florinda had proven herself very adept at seeking, easily finding Patrick hiding in the fifth floor broom closet with her older brother, Fortunado, already in tow. The search for William, on the other hand, was rather lengthy and involved knocking on several tenants' doors to inquire within. Lysandra Gellywickle, was none too pleased to be disturbed from her slumber by the trio; she worked at night for a nearby wizarding theatre and coldly slammed the door. Ms. Lollard, however offered the children some Chocolate Comets after checking first that Grumby was nowhere in sight.

They knocked on an eighth-floor door and were greeted by the boisterous laugh of a large-bellied, rosy-cheeked man who immediately reached down and ruffled the heads of Patrick and Fortunado, sparing Florinda's glossy, dark brown locks.

"What've we got here?" he roared, his gaze jumping between each of them.

"We're looking for William," piped Florinda.

"William, huh?" He was practically yelling now. "You know, I haven't seen him...all...day." He raised his right hand and motioned quietly behind the door.

Fortunado and Florinda rushed inside and began searching all over, even to the effect of knocking over a jar of spare spangles, spilling coins across the floor.

"I win! I win!" yelled Florinda, almost as loudly as the man had.

"Uncle Falstaff!" shouted William, emerging behind a couch, firmly in the clutches of the Magos children. "You said you wouldn't tell them!"

He smiled widely, his cheshire grin revealing a missing tooth here and there.

"Did I say that?" His wand was busy cleaning up the scattered money. "Must have slipped my mind. Besides you've been hiding in here for half-an-hour!"

"I should have known better," William said, brushing dust and lint off his clothes. He looked up at Patrick. "How fast did she find _you_?"

"Ten minutes?" he said, estimating.

William shook his head.

"Uncle Falstaff, this is Patrick. Patrick, Uncle Falstaff."

"Falstaff Oldcastle," he bellowed, reaching out to shake Patrick's hand. His voice apparently always boomed throughout a room. "I'm not really his uncle, though, might as well be," he continued, grabbing William around the neck and grinding a fist into his scalp. "I've known this kid since he was born. Spit up on me first time I held him!"

"I was probably trying to sleep."

The door, still ajar, invited the voices of approaching wizards through the apartment, voices that Fortunado and Florinda recognized as their parents'.

"Mommy!" screamed Florinda.

"Dad!"

The two ran quickly to the door crashing directly into their parents' stomachs as soon as they crossed the threshold.

"Flori-What are you guys doing up here?" their mother questioned, trying to regain her footing. She looked down and placed a hand on her children's backs, her face temporarily shielded by short, black curtains of hair.

"Dulce, they were just playing Hide-and-Seek with William and his friend, here." Uncle Falstaff's voice finally dropped to a reasonable volume. "Your daughter is quite the finder, Amargo."

Mr. Magos' face barely flinched, the dark goatee that framed his mouth helped to emphasize this fact, his eyes focused squarely on his daughter.

"You both know better than to be playing in other people's apartments," he said sternly, continuing to avoid eye contact with Uncle Falstaff.

"Really, it's no big deal," Uncle Falstaff assured.

"Downstairs. Now." Fortunado and Florinda's playful squeeze around their parents loosened and their heads hung low about their chests.

"Bye, William. Bye, Patrick." The pair said in unison, moving solemnly down the steps to the floors below. Mrs. Magos followed promptly behind them giving a discomforting look to Uncle Falstaff, William and Patrick as she left.

"Amargo, honestly-they didn't do anything. It was just a game. No need to be so harsh," Uncle Falstaff said, looking to quickly reassure him. Mr. Magos finally raised his face and returned a relentless glare. It was powerful, Patrick couldn't move, not even to look over at William.

"I never want to find my kids up here again," he issued, coldly, and turned in an instant away from the open door to Uncle Falstaff's apartment.

It was silent for a moment, the echoing sound of Mr. Magos' footsteps the only audible noise among their heavy breathing. What was only seconds earlier a playful atmosphere quickly devolved into a room suffocated by tension. The entire exchange made Patrick feel uneasy.

"What...was that about?" William asked.

"They're very protective about their children," Uncle Falstaff explained. "That's all." His voice had not returned to its rowdy state. Instead, he cleared his throat and moved as swiftly as his portly figure allowed to empty the coins from the jar into a satchel. "Alright, boys, I've got some place to be."

He grabbed a tri-corner hat, and began to usher Patrick and William into the hall, locking the door behind him.

"You two take it easy, now."

And with a slight adjustment to his robes, Uncle Falstaff was off down the stairs leaving Patrick and William standing side-by-side, puzzled.

"Remind me to never make Mr. Magos angry," Patrick said.

"Deal."

The pair spent the next hour hurling rocks across the pond in Central Park and generally avoiding the residents of The Perch for the time being. The confrontation with Uncle Falstaff left Patrick unsure if he and William might be considered untrustworthy in Mr. Magos' eyes. At any rate, they were ultimately killing time until Mr. Quinn was finished investigating a Doxy infestation on the ninth floor, so that they could purchase their books for school at Agnomon Square. Doxies were irritating fairies with sharp teeth that made Patrick instinctively jumpy upon mention.

"You know, the Square isn't far from here. We can definitely walk there," William said, his throwing arm getting visibly fatigued.

"Are you sure? Shouldn't we wait for your dad?" Patrick looked around. He realized that as many times as he's been to Agnomon Square, he'd never actually ventured out into the Muggle side of the city. Even now, he had hardly gone more than a block of The Augurey's Perch.

"It's fine, I've gone there by myself before. Besides, don't you want to see a little of New York?" taunted William, already bending down to re-lace his shoes.

Patrick surveyed the scene around him. A wide pond surrounded by the leafy drapery of trees, which shaded an older couple having a picnic and another man reading a book on a park bench. It was serene. A peaceful setting in an otherwise bustling metropolis.

"I _am_ seeing New York. Right here."

Patrick turned around to see William had already set off south, apparently in the direction of Agnomon Square.

"Hey! Wait!"

"It's not far, just follow me!" William said, his brisk pace rapidly increasing until they were jogging away from the park and out onto a street corner. Patrick was huffing, trying to keep up, his friend moving between crossing pedestrians startling them as he forced his way through every open space he could find. Women carrying shopping bags and children with their faces in video games were subsequently dismissed as Patrick tried his best to keep up with William.

They were racing in an all-out sprint now, running through an open square past a large golden statue and a group of raucous protesters. Patrick may have been running too quickly, but he could have sworn he saw one of them holding a sign bearing the words "_Don't Silence the Jarveys!"_

The open areas helped Patrick keep William in sight. There were significantly less people to dodge as many of them were sitting or standing near an impressive water fountain. The few that were utilizing the sidewalk didn't hesitate to shout at Patrick and William in an effort to slow them down. William, however, pressed on forcing Patrick to continue to try and keep pace, especially when sharply turning around a corner and having to jump out of the way of a group of mothers pushing strollers.

"We're almost there!" called William from ahead. "It's just before that giant '9!'"

Patrick strained through the pedestrians to see a huge, orange number nine right in the middle of the sidewalk not too far ahead. His feet were pounding, not having let up since his chase began. They had to have ran a solid three blocks, made even more arduous by the amount of obstacles, both human and otherwise, impeding their path.

William halted just past a red brick building, a considerable distance away from the massive "9." He looked to his right and began to survey the leftmost side of the building where a line of plants, potted in what were unmistakably cement cauldrons, had been situated. They looked, to Patrick, to form a sort of pathway directly into the side of the brick building, an idea immediately confirmed by the exit of a pair of wizards directly from the wall, both carrying cups with iced beverages. The newly visible door swung wide open allowing the murmurs of the busy interior to leak out on the noisy street side.

"You're a fool! No way the Condors win the conference this year. They couldn't even win the series against the Kingfishers!" said one of the wizards.

"I'm telling you, it's their year! Volatia is finally healthy, and they actually have decent Swipers for once," said the other, taking a sip of his drink.

Patrick glanced inside the building as the door closed, seeing a stairway that led downstairs and-judging by the drinks the two wizards were carrying-led to a coffee shop. The door closed behind them disappearing entirely back into the wall.

"Looks like...we're here," Patrick said, between breaths, the fatigue from their run had not yet subsided.

"See? That wasn't too far. Now it's...yes!"

William nudged his foot against the middle cauldron and then reached out to grab the now visible door handle, once again exposing the clamor of the coffee shop to the outside world, and as usual it went largely unnoticed.

The two of them descended the stairway into the familiar setting of a place Patrick knew as The Witches Brew. A rush of chatter and the whirring of coffee smothered the atmosphere. There were a large number of small tables placed all around the main counter that was positioned along the right wall of the basement-like room. Wizards and witches filled the shop, many either deep in conversation or minding their own business reading a copy of _The Examiner_-there were even a few listening to a Quodpot game on a radio in the corner. The most were standing in line to be served by the shop's owner, an older witch with a bright smile. Her radish-colored hair was struggling to stay put in its bun as she shuffled back and forth between taking and filling various orders. Patrick had been given several free cups of hot cocoa by this particular witch and recognized her immediately as Bernadette Skink.

"Man, it's really crowded in here," said William. He and Patrick were already making their way through the café towards a back door. "Can't these people make their coffee at home?"

"Mr. Thatcher! Mr. Quinn!"

They spun their heads in the direction of the voice, seeing their wispy-haired and bespectacled Arithmancy teacher, Professor Obelus.

"Hello, professor. What are you doing here?" William asked, stopping suddenly. Patrick, focusing on Professor Obelus, bumped into him and recoiled into a witch that was preparing to stand up from her table. The witch, wearing floral print robes, froze of embarrassment, leaving her spilled drink behind and scrambling to pick up a covered cage from the ground and checking her pocket watch in a hurry.

"I'm sorry!" Patrick said, but the witch was halfway to the staircase, barrelling through the other customers on her way to the exit.

"Nilda!" called Ms. Skink from behind the counter, "table nine!"

A timid witch no more than eighteen, came rushing over to clean up the mess. Patrick, William, and Professor Obelus had been watching the scene along with most of the others in the shop and halted their conversations until it was clear the commotion had died down.

"Someone's in a hurry," quipped William, turning back to Professor Obelus.

"I'd be upset if that were me, I can't get enough of Bernadette's Puffapod Latte," he said, gesturing to his own beverage. "Alas, to answer your question, I was here to pick up some quills and parchment for the new year. It's been a great time for Arithmancy. It _is _a palindromic year, after all."

"That's cool, I guess," William said, weakly, not sure exactly how to carry on a conversation with a teacher they had not yet been taught by.

"Yes, most cool!" continued Professor Obelus. "Ah, there you are Samuel."

Patrick and William were momentarily confused before swirling around to see Mr. Quinn standing behind them, a stern and uncompromising expression directed toward his son, not unlike the one Mr. Magos had given Uncle Falstaff.

"Hello, Osric. Looks like you've managed to get these two to listen to _you, _I see."

William shrank a bit, dodging eye contact and letting his father take over the conversation with Professor Obelus.

"Well, these two will have to wait another year before they really have to listen to me," he chuckled. "How's everything at The Augurey's Perch? At full capacity?"

"Actually, your old room on the seventh floor just opened up not too long ago."

"Ah, well, I'm sure you'll fill it in no time. It takes a lot of work to keep that place in great shape. Your father would be proud of you."

Mr. Quinn beamed earnestly.

"Well, I've spent far too long at the Square," said Professor Obelus, "and I expect you three have some shopping to do. It was nice chatting with you all. Mr. Thatcher, Mr. Quinn, I'll be seeing you soon!"

With a sip of his drink, Patrick, William and Mr. Quinn bid Professor Obelus goodbye as he walked down a hall which they all knew led outside to the fireplaces that transported wizards in and out of Agnomon Square by Floo.

"I'm not sure if you two noticed, but you left these behind," Mr. Quinn said, rounding on Patrick and William. He was holding up their letters from Wentwater with their second year supply list, giving Patrick his own and keeping William's in hand. Patrick opened the list and quickly skimmed its contents.

WENTWATER CONSERVATORY _of_ MAGIC

COURSE BOOKS

Second year students will require a copy of each of the following:

_The Essential Spell Book (Volume 2)_ by Tyler Hewden

_Transfixed by Transfiguration_ by Jeffrey Flexing

The list was admittedly shorter than last year's, but Patrick remembered an item not listed, the broomstick he was given for his birthday courtesy of his grandparents. He had grabbed the receipt for his broom earlier that day placing it securely in his pants pocket, just as he did now with his school list.

Mr. Quinn and William were chatting amongst themselves while leading the way down the same hall as Professor Obelus and exited outside to The Witches Brew_'s _underground terrace. A few more wizards were out at the tables minding their own business, undisturbed by the Patrick and the Quinns. Most importantly, they finally stepped out into the wide mall that was Agnomon Square. The sudden realization that The Witches Brewwas beneath the surface informed Patrick that Agnomon Square was, in fact, underground as well. Having never traveled to the Muggle world through the portal in the coffee shop, this news was revelatory. Looking up at the open sky, that he now knew had to be bewitched to appear that way, it would have been impossible to tell having only experienced the mall from the inside.

"Patrick, we've got stop by Bloombill's first and pick up some money to pay for William's things. How about we meet you at Wickburn's to get your books?" Mr. Quinn said.

"Okay," he replied, and the Quinns set off directly north of the gleaming silver sundial that defined the Square to Bloombill's Wizarding Bank.

Patrick moved quickly to the left of the sundial towards the bookstore, taking his list from his pocket and preparing to double check the names of the textbooks he needed before entering, at least he intended to until his attention was captured by a man stacking boxes in a storefront window.

Mr. Wedgewood was finally back in his shop, that is, the Mr. Wedgewood that owned the shop, Warren, and not his son Walter Wedgewood-who had been present last year when Patrick was shopping for his wand. He wasn't even present last Christmas when Patrick and William came to hunt for Christmas gifts. The wandmaker motioned for Patrick to come closer by waving a weathered hand from behind the glass. Suddenly inquisitive, Patrick obliged.

The bell chimed as he pushed open the door to the shop and greeted Mr. Wedgewood.

"Hi," said Patrick, timidly.

Mr. Wedgewood's face perused Patrick's, forming a wide grin on his own. His black hair had began to fade giving him seasoned locks to go with large green eyes, and sharp, thin eyebrows.

"Mr. Thatcher how very good to see you. I expect you're here getting your things for your new year?"

"Er...yes," replied Patrick. He was uneasy, not because he was afraid of Mr. Wedgewood, he had encountered him several times while growing up at the Square, but because Mr. Wedgewood wasn't usually the type to engage in trivial conversations. The last time he spoke to him, Patrick was told all about how he had witnessed Orpheus Staves, a wizard conductor, replace his old wand after being chosen by yet another made of beech wood.

"You must know, I was saddened that I was not present when your wand selected you, Mr. Thatcher. After all, I've come to see you around more than most wizards your age. Would you mind if I...," Mr. Wedgewood offered his hand forward toward Patrick's wand.

It was a strange feeling being asked to offer up one's wand, an obvious vulnerability inherent in the request. Patrick had not parted with it since he received it in this very store a year ago. However, it seemed an insult to deny a wandmaker an opportunity to inspect his own handiwork so Patrick retrieved his wand from his robes, once again feeling compelled to honor a wish of Mr. Wedgewood.

"Ah," he soothed, taking the wand into his hands and rolling it between his fingers, "yes...yes, this is a fine one indeed. 12 ½ inches, Hazelwood...strong, as long as you are, Mr. Thatcher. This wand will bend with your emotions, but it is your unwavering ally. Core of..."

Mr. Wedgewood paused. His eyes swished side to side as if searching the shelves of his brain.

"What? What is it?" asked Patrick, his hesitance overtaken by curiosity now. Walter had not told Patrick of his wand's core when he was chosen by it before.

"Oh, Mr. Thatcher...I am not sure this is suitable for your use," lifting the wand tip to his ear.

"No...that's my wand, it chose _me!_" emphasized Patrick.

"Indeed, it did. However, we wandmakers must be very cautious in the selection process, ensuring that the wand provided is the best match. How many wands did you try before this one?"

He thought back to that day. Walter had handed Patrick one wand and one wand only before an array of gold sparks sprouted from the tip and showered the store.

"Only one, sir."

"Hmm...," Mr. Wedgewood seemed to have confirmed his own suspicions, "and have you experienced any abnormal behavior with this wand. Any at all?"

"No, not once," Patrick said, truthfully. He had absolutely no reason to believe his wand was anything but ordinary; ordinary in the way that an extraordinary object like a magic wand _could_ be.

"I see."

Mr. Wedgewood pulled back his mounting doubts. Retreating again into his mind, this time shutting his eyes, perhaps to help himself visualize whatever he was looking for.

"Your core, Mr. Thatcher, is not one of the common three Supreme Cores. That is not to say that it is inferior. No, many wizards and witches use cores other than dragon heartstring, phoenix feather or unicorn hair. These kinds of wands, however, are fashioned from substances of a particular significance to said witch or wizard, that is to mean, they present these cores to a wandmaker specifically for their own use."

"I don't understand," interrupted Patrick, unsure of what exactly Mr. Wedgewood was getting at.

"I mean, that I do not carry very many wands that are outside the three Supreme Cores, and of those that I do carry, none have been sold in years. Perhaps my father could more accurately attest...rest his soul, but we simply have not fulfilled these kinds of requests in literally a century or more."

"What kind of wand is it then?" questioned Patrick, trying to keep the wandmaker on track. Mr. Wedgewood was beginning to lose himself within his own surprise.

"Hmm? Right, right...this is one of our forgotten wands, Mr. Thatcher."

Patrick's face screwed up in confusion.

"Forgotten? How?"

"There are say...five or six of these kinds of wands left in the store-nogtail whisker, ramora scale, things of the like-but I don't typically offer them to wizards that enter here, for obvious reasons. Their magical properties are likely to have withered away or at least decreased significantly or, even more realistically, were never very strong to begin with. These wand cores usually hold some sort of sentimental value that no one other than the person who requested them would find even the least bit functional. As more superior cores became the norm a handful of these such wands have remained unsold and unclaimed by the substance's original owner."

"But, if it was meant for someone else why did it choose me?" Patrick queried

"Wands are made to be matched, Mr. Thatcher, they yearn to be paired with a suitable wizard. It is probable that this wand has been sitting here waiting for a wizard just close enough in skill and talent to match itself with, whether a perfect fit or not."

"Can you tell me, Mr. Wedgewood," started Patrick, thinking of the one thing he had yet to find out, "what is my wand's core?"

"This wand's core is a griffin feather, and from the looks of it, a bronze one, or even gold, perhaps. Fairly difficult to procure, griffin feathers, which is why we've decided not to use them here. Very capable cores...strong once trusted, dangerous if unskilled. It is this reason that I offer to you the option to try any other wand in the store, Mr. Thatcher, free of charge."

Return his wand for a new one? Patrick didn't even give it a second thought before answering Mr. Wedgewood.

"No, thank you. I like the one I've got," he said, boldly. Mr. Wedgewood rolled the wand between his fingers once more, savoring the feel of it a final time.

"I had a feeling you might say that. It, of course, is not entirely up to you," he chuckled, "and I do believe this wand has made up its mind." He handed the wand back to Patrick with a slight nod, presenting it as one might present a sword to a knight.

He took the wand back from Mr. Wedgewood, examining it closely as if for the first time. There was something invigorating about holding it now that gave him a newfound appreciation for his handle fit comfortably in his palm and confirmed that which he already knew; this wand was undoubtedly his.

He looked out to the square from the store's window seeing William and Mr. Quinn exiting Bloombill's Bank and around the square toward Wickburn's Bookstore. Patrick tucked away his wand firmly in his robes and pulled the door open. Mr. Wedgewood called out to him as the bell chimed.

"Mr. Thatcher."

"Yeah?"

"Use it wisely."

And with that Patrick exited, watching Mr. Wedgewood retreat to the back of his store.

"What were you doing in there? You chip your wand?" asked William. He and his father were passing by just as Patrick stepped foot outside the wand shop.

"No, it's nothing, I just hadn't seen Mr. Wedgewood in a while."

It didn't seem entirely pertinent to tell William all about his wand at least not with his father present. His eyes roamed quickly across the square staring across the sundial and to a storefront with caged owls in the window.

"Actually, can you grab my books for me?" Patrick asked, reaching into his pocket and retrieving two starlings and five bells, money that he had been holding onto for some time. "I'll be right back."

"Uh, sure..." William said, taking the coins into his hands and watching Patrick run off.

Patrick thought it would be appropriate to check in on his mother at The Aviary to assure her that he was still in one piece. When he reached her storefront a closed sign that hung in the window deterred him from moving any further. It wasn't irregular for Mrs. Thatcher to close the shop from time-to-time, particularly if sales were slow, which might have been the case today. The Square wasn't as crowded as The Witches Brew would have suggested. Even now there was only a smattering of wizards loitering around the plaza.

Next door was Fancour's Wizarding Sports Shop, which meant he could claim his broom now. The store was decorated with numerous Quodpot uniforms beneath a giant board of the current standings. All of the teams were set at "0-0" as the season had not yet started. Patrick approached the counter, but was addressed before he could speak.

"Patrick!" shouted the black witch, moving from around the counter. "I know what you're here for..." her voice tiptoe-ing into song. Felicia Fancour waited patiently for Patrick to produce the receipt for her before continuing to lead him back in the store. "When your grandparents told me it was for you, I just couldn't wait for you to come pick it up. This is really a top tier broom."

Ms. Fancour strode past Quaffles and Quods, decorative flags and posters, granian bridles and Beaters bats, before momentarily disappearing in the backroom. When she re-emerged, she was holding the most magnificent broomstick Patrick had ever seen.

"This is really mine?" said Patrick, awestruck.

"Unless you don't want it," joked Ms. Fancour.

"No, I do. I definitely do!"

"Good, it's all yours."

Felicia grinned, giddily, handing Patrick an instruction booklet as she carried his new broomstick to the counter to be wrapped. Along the front was a summary:

THE WHIRLWING:

_The one-of-a-kind racing broom from the Welkin Racing Co. is made of chestnut, and wand-crafted with the professional sports wizard in mind. The maple broomtail has improved on Welkin's signature handling giving the Whirlwing the most accurate control yet. With top speeds of over 180 miles an hour and a state-of-the-art Cushioning Charm, the Whirlwing cannot be beat._

"Here you go, one Whirlwing, wrapped and ready."

Felicia passed the broom over to Patrick and wished him goodbye. It was light, very light. He could not truly comprehend what he was holding; the wrapping paper masked the glossy finish he managed to glimpse inside the shop. His mind was instantly whisked to the first Quidditch match of the new school year, gliding around the field with great ease.

"Patrick, let's go!"

William called out to him from the southernmost point of the square, waving his schoolbooks overhead. He stopped then pointed as Patrick walked over.

"What's that?" he asked, incredulously.

"It's my new broom, I guess I forgot to mention my grandparent's got it for me for my birthday."

"Are you serious? That's a Whirlwing! That's one of the most expensive brooms you can buy!" exclaimed William.

"Well, you certainly won't be having any trouble on the Quidditch team this year. That's a heck of a broom, Patrick," Mr. Quinn said, admiring the wrapped package.

It was exciting in one sense, but the incredulity on William's face began to recede into disappointment, made all the more evident by his silence heading back to The Perch. Between the walk back to the Floo fireplaces to their trek up the thirteen floors to the Quinn's room, William barely uttered a few words.

"You guys put your things away and I'll see what I can scrounge up for dinner, alright?" Mr. Quinn unlocked the door with his wand and led the boys inside the apartment. Patrick retreated to William's room setting his books inside his trunk and propping his new Whirlwing against the wall. William did the same with his books when he entered.

"Are you okay?" Patrick asked, trying to break William's dour mood.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replied, unconvincingly.

William didn't look at him and Patrick didn't know whether to press harder or leave him to try and feel better on his own.

"If you want, you can try it out first once we get to Wentwater."

It was silent for a second, Patrick deciding it was best to meet Mr. Quinn in the living room for dinner.

"If I do, you might not get it back," William said, and he slightly tilted his head giving a half-smirk. It was enough to put Patrick at ease throughout their dinner of turkey legs and macaroni and cheese and for William to want to tell Patrick how a witch held up the line at Wickburn's for twenty minutes by trying to return a book she purchased at Mortar and Pestle's.

The day's events were unexpectedly tiring. Mr. Quinn fell asleep on the couch reading _The American Seer_, another newspaper from the Wizarding world. Patrick sat on his bed reading his Whirlwing's booklet and struggling to hoist back up his eyelids every time he closed them to blink. The only one that managed to stay awake was William, who was inspired to re-read all of his Quidditch and Quodpot books. Quiet page rustling occasionally woke Patrick's consciousness after finally drifting off, until he was woken up for good by loud knocking and shouts from outside the apartment door.

"The owls were attacked."


End file.
